The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

Rains patters against the roof. As soon as Ripley closes the door, the sound intensifies. It’s harder. Denser. It’s hail.

He flips on the lights.

“Right on time,” Ripley says, knocking water droplets off his hair.

I roll my eyes. “You say that like you planned it.”

“I accept your gratitude for me finding you a warm, dry, safe place to stay during a thunderstorm. You’re so welcome.”

“And I accept your apology for not listening to me when I predicted this exact situation.”

He side-eyes me, heading toward the table. “So you get credit for the cabin?”

“Okay, fine. This situation minus the cabin. But the fact not to be overlooked here is that we wouldn’t have needed the cabin had we not decided to hike a mountain on a day it was clearly going to storm.”

He grumbles something I can’t hear—lucky for him.

The cabin is small, but clean, with a gray sofa beneath a window. A wooden table sits along a wall. There’s a large fireplace made of stone in the center of the structure, and a kitchen with the basics—a simple, stainless sink, dorm-sized refrigerator, and a cooktop—is tucked behind it. It’s slightly musty, but not bad.

I cross my arms over my chest, shivering. “This place is kind of cute.”

“It’s better than getting pelted with ice out there.”

“True.”

I peek in two rooms on the far side of the cabin. One is a bedroom big enough for a bed and a single nightstand. The other is a bathroom with the tiniest shower I’ve ever seen, toilet, and sink.

Ripley slings his backpack onto the table.

“We just wait it out in here?” I ask. “I didn’t even bring a book.”

He pulls his phone out and holds it high into the air. “There’s a tornado warning for this area right now. We’re supposed to take cover, so, yeah, we wait it out here.”

The wind picks up, howling through the trees, and the windows rattle. When a tree falls just outside the cabin, the force of the crash makes me jump.

Ripley comes around the corner from the bathroom with two towels, handing me one.

“Here,” he says. “Get dried off.”

I force a smile at him. “Thanks.”

I start with my hair. Ripley tosses his towel over a chair and picks his phone back up again. He walks to the window, staring at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I have spotty reception, but I’m trying to get a text to Tate to go through in case he can swing by my house and pick up Waffles.”

My chill is pushed away by the warmth that floods my veins.

I’ve been with men—with people—in similar situations before. They worry their car will be destroyed in a storm. That no one will know where they are. They panic about how to get to safety, or how they’ll pay for damages, or that they’ll miss a meeting.

Ripley is worried about his puppy. I cannot deal with this information.

“There,” he says, pausing a few moments before putting the phone back on the table. “Tate’s going to go get him.”

I stare at him, confused.

“What?” He lifts his brows, and he picks up his towel.

“If we were recording right now, I’d tell you that I think it’s freaking adorable how much you love your dog. It’s really endearing—and unexpected.” I shrug. “But since we’re not filming, and I don’t have to pretend to be nice, I’ll say that it’s weird seeing you think of someone outside yourself.”

He fights a grin. “Yeah, well, you need to be more worried about the fact that you have a soaked, white T-shirt on than how much I love my dog.”

My attention drops to my chest. Sure enough, I’m giving him a show. Again.

“Good thing you’ve already seen them once, I guess,” I say.

He rummages through his bag again and pulls out a long-sleeved shirt.

“Was one of your top search terms ‘Things to put in a backpack’?” I ask.

He tosses the shirt at me. “You’re welcome.”

“What else do you have in there?”

“Jerky. Nuts. Water.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Any candy bars? Mints? Gum?”

He wrinkles his nose back at me. “No. No junk food.”

Red flag. “How long do you think we’re going to be stranded here?” I ask.

“The tornado warning is until four o’clock, but Tate said the storm is supposed to stick around all night.”

“All night? Are you kidding me? Did you even look at the weather this morning?”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t plan the date.”

He strips himself of his shirt, displaying his bare chest and rock-hard abdomen in plain sight.

My God.

“Well, I did plan the date,” he says, “but I don’t claim to be a pseudo-meteorologist, either. The sky looked clear when we left.”

I should say something, but I’m apparently unable to come up with a quick retort and stare at his thick shoulders and the way they slope from his neck to his arms at the same time.

He kicks off his shoes and socks. “We should grab some content here. How often do you get trapped in a cabin on a date?”

My mind immediately goes to X-rated content, and my cheeks heat.

Ripley drops his shorts to the floor. That doesn’t help. He stands in front of me wearing a pair of black boxer briefs—and nothing else.

The storm rages on outside the cabin, and a small storm begins to stir inside me, too.

His thighs are muscled, stretching the fabric around them. The ratio from his shoulders to his waist is perfection. Lines are cut into his groin, directing attention to the bulge in his briefs, and I try to throttle the dizzying current racing through me.

“What?” he asks, smirking. “Do I have something on me?”

He runs his hands over his chest as if inspecting himself for a blemish. My gaze follows the movement, moving from his pecs to his shoulders, and then down to his waistband.

His eyes hold a maddening touch of arrogance, which is enough to snap me out of my daze.

Two can play this game, pal.

“Yeah, you had a bit of drool on your stomach, but you got it,” I say, meeting his smirk with one of my own. I grab the edge of my shirt and slowly drag it over my head.

The fabric is cold and heavy as it lifts, and the air meeting my damp skin causes a flurry of goose bumps. But my insides are smoldering. I barely even notice.

My heart pounds as I remove my shoes and socks—bending over to give him a full view of my cleavage. I know what I’m doing, yet I don’t have a clue. I’m playing a perilous game that I can’t stop.

Ripley’s eyes rake boldly over my body. His Adam’s apple bobs just before he licks his lips. I’m uncertain if the wetness on his skin is from the rain or sweat.

His attention, his arousal, is flattering. The power from knowing a man this virile is attracted to me is heady. And the intensity of the flame licking my core is almost unbearable.

I’m only human.

But we’ve been here before …

My stomach twists into a tight knot as a cyclone of memories comes rushing back.

I’ve stood in front of him in my bra and felt his desire for me one other time. I’ve basked in the glow of being Ripley’s chosen girl. I trusted him, bamboozled by his good looks and dazzling charm, and I got crushed.

Because I made the mistake of thinking his intentions were real.

A full-body shiver hits me with full force.

Suddenly, everything is clear.

This really is just a game to him.

The sweet words, gentle touches, the fucking purple gloves—it was all a side quest in his effort to help out Jonah. He was using me as entertainment. And I fell for it.

In fact, if I hadn’t just come to that realization, I could have fallen for him.

My breath stalls in my throat.

Oh, my God.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a shadow dusting his features.

I laugh out of anger, mostly at myself. I knew better than to do this. How did I let this happen?

“Okay. All right. You win,” I say, pulling the long-sleeved shirt he gave me over my head. I don’t want to be enveloped by his clothes, or his cologne, but I also don’t want hypothermia.

“I win? What are you talking about?”

My mind races through the last few weeks. Ordering for me at Ruma. The promise of not letting me fall. The texts. The almost kisses.

You fucking asshole.

Fear mixes with embarrassment and swirls with anger inside me, creating a nasty cocktail threatening to explode.

“What’s going on, Georgia?”

“I hate to admit this, but you might’ve gotten one over on me,” I say, glaring at him. “Do you want to know where you went too far?”

His brows pull together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I laugh at his faux ignorance. “It was the almost kiss in the parking lot. And even that almost worked. The purple fucking gloves were a great addition—well fucking done, and I drove away thinking—hey, maybe he means it this time.” I glare at him. “Like an idiot. Because there were no cameras there, Ripley. That wasn’t for the show. That was for you.”

The color slowly drains from his face. “You almost kissed me, too.”

“Maybe. Maybe for a split second I did. Maybe for a moment I had the courage to hope that you weren’t the rich prick who fucked with my feelings at a time when I was the most vulnerable, and you weren’t using this stupid show that I never should’ve done to do it all over again—oof.”

He takes my hand and jerks me to him, capturing my mouth with his. His lips crash against mine. His fingers cup my cheeks, holding me still. It sends the pit of my stomach spiraling.

He kisses me with a savage intensity, as if he’s been waiting on this moment for a lifetime.

I melt, succumbing to the moment, my body sagging against his. I want to fight it, to shove him away, but find myself responding to his touch without thought. It’s a challenge and a reward all at once.

“Ripley.” I breathe his name as he pulls away, my eyes fluttering open. “What the hell was that?”

“That was something I should’ve done a long fucking time ago.”

“What?”

I stumble backward, nearly tripping over his backpack.

Nothing makes sense. The world is fuzzy. I’m weak, confused, and desperate for more.

His breaths are ragged, and his eyes are wild as he searches me for an answer to an unknown question.

“I tell you how mad I am at you,” I say, my heart pounding. “And you answer that by kissing me? What is wrong with you?”

“You. You’re what’s wrong with me. You’re what’s always been wrong with me.”

“Oh, so now you’re blaming me for all the problems in your life? How fair.”

He laughs angrily. “Don’t you get it, Georgia?”

I take another step back. “Oh, I get it, Ripley. But don’t even try to use this kiss as something new to hold over my head.”

“Hold over your head? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how the last time you kissed me, you did it to win a childish, immature bet with your little friends.”

His features harden.

“And how everyone at Waltham was laughing at me because I, the new girl, fell for you hook, line, and sinker.”

“Georgia …”

Now I’m just pissed.

I step toward him, fire coming out of the top of my head as I relive one of the worst nights of my life.

“You came up to me on the bleachers and asked me to dance,” I say, glaring at him. “You’d made eye contact with me all week at school, and I thought there’s a nice guy. Wrong.”

I stop a few feet in front of him, sliding his shirt sleeves up my arms like I’m about to fight.

“We danced and you were so sweet,” I say, “asking me about how I liked school, and where I was from, and what I liked to do. Then that jock spilled a cup of punch on my shirt, soaking it through. Do you remember that?”

He rubs his forehead.

“We go to the little nook off the cafeteria because you insist that I wear your button-up until my mom comes to get me,” I say, getting madder by the minute. “I take my shirt off and …”

“I kissed you. Dammit.” He groans. “Georgia, listen …”

“No, you listen. That little stunt hung over my head my entire senior year. The girls that came over to tell me that it was all a bet by the jocks, and you won⁠—”

“What?”

“—don’t what me. I heard you all talking in the restroom. I had to go through what should’ve been my happiest school year known as the slut because you apparently let everyone think we did a lot more than kiss while I put on your shirt.”

“I would never do that.”

“Bullshit,” I say, firing right back at him. “Then I had to go home with no one to talk to, deal with my mother’s complete breakdown over her love life, and a father who didn’t want anything to do with me because, apparently, I wasn’t worth the energy of a relationship.”

Ripley’s face falls as my bottom lip trembles.

“I’ve gotten over it,” I say. “I don’t care what you or anyone thinks of me. You can hate me. That’s fine. But the fact that you would do this all over again to me …”

“Will you listen to me? Please?”

“No.”

I turn to march into the kitchen because it’s the farthest I can currently get from him in nothing but his shirt, but he grabs my arm and whirls me around to face him. His eyes are wild. His features somber. Yet he holds on to me gently—just tight enough to beg me to stay.

“Did I know there was a bet that night?” He holds his breath. “Yes. I did.”

“You asshole.”

“But I wasn’t a part of it. I overheard my friends talking about it—who could be the first guy at Waltham to kiss the gorgeous new girl?”

“Congratulations.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’d watched you from the second you walked in that school. I couldn’t take my fucking eyes off you. You were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, and I tried to talk to you a hundred times but chickened out.”

Right.

“Why would a girl like you talk to a guy like me?” he asks.

Is he serious right now?

He steps toward me hesitantly, as if he thinks I might bolt for the door. “Listen, Georgia, I kissed you that night because I wanted to—because I wanted to kiss you more than I’d ever kissed anyone in my life. And there was no way I was letting one of those assholes, who wouldn’t give a shit about you, make a joke out of you.”

“So you did it yourself?”

“I danced with you to warn you but couldn’t figure out how to say it. And then your shirt was soiled and I thought it was the perfect time to talk to you without everyone around. But then your shirt came off and you looked at me and …” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t do that to win a bet. And, as a matter of fucking fact, that whole incident is what cost me my college scholarship.”

My jaw hangs open. “What are you talking about?”

“A few months later, Shawn Tonley made a comment about you and … it devolved from there. We got into a fight and the cops got called. I got suspended and lost my scholarship.”

My eyes widen and I cover my mouth with my hand. Oh, my gosh.

“He ran his mouth because he knew I couldn’t do anything,” Ripley says. “The college I was going to had a strict behavior clause in the offer. Shawn knew that.”

“Then why didn’t you just let him talk shit?”

A softness drifts across Ripley’s face. “Because it was about you.”

I gasp a breath, my mind spinning. That’s why he got suspended? That’s why he lost his scholarship?

That’s why his father broke his nose?

Because of me?

I take him in, hoping I can find something that makes me think he’s lying to me—but there’s nothing. He’s more unguarded, more vulnerable, than I’ve ever seen him. There’s no joke, no smirk, no mischief in his eyes. No hatred.

He’s telling me the truth.

That one event caused this terrible steamroller effect that tore apart my self-confidence and derailed his future.

God.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Because I didn’t know you didn’t know. I thought you just decided I was a jerk, or a bother, and went on your way.”

“Someone told me once that I don’t have a lot of value as a person. And while I know that’s bullshit, it lingers in the back of my brain.”

Oh, Ripley.

“I don’t know what to say,” I say, stumbling over the words as I try to process the bomb that’s been dropped in my lap.

“Yeah. Me either.”

“I’m sorry. I⁠—”

“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I’ve done enough things to piss you off over the years to warrant hating me.”

I groan. “And I’ve certainly done enough over the years to warrant you hating me.” Not to mention being the reason your own father punched you in the face.

Thunder booms, rocking the cabin.

“Where does this leave us?” he asks, nibbling his bottom lip.

I know what he’s asking—how do we go forward? Do we forgive each other? Talk it out?

Does this change anything at all?

He’s right in that we have done a lot of mean things to each other over the years. We have made it difficult for the other. There’s not been an interaction that passed without us getting under each other’s skin.

But we’re also always together—in the same room, at the same parties, on the same television show …

If I had known the truth over the years, things would’ve been different for us. And if he’d realized that I didn’t know what really happened—if his father hadn’t fucked up his confidence—things would’ve been different for us, too.

Fuck you, Reid Brewer.

I’m starting to realize that my perception of Ripley has only been decided from behind very hurt and anger-filled glasses. And that anger has manifested such bitterness … and could have been avoided.

Ripley has always been a loyal friend to his friends, and an amazing brother to his siblings. Tate adores him. I’ve seen it, but my perception has been skewed.

“I’d watched you from the second you walked in that school. I couldn’t take my fucking eyes off you. You were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, and I tried to talk to you a hundred times but chickened out.”

He wanted a very different relationship with me. Truthfully, I would’ve died to have one with him before the mixer. And the fact that we were robbed of that—because it very much feels like a robbery at this point—and it affected the next decade of our lives feels devastating.

I study his pools of blue and the stress in my body fades away.

“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” He’s right. We can’t fix it. We can’t erase the stupid things we’ve done and said to each other over the years. But we can refuse to allow the trauma from our fathers and childish mistakes steal anything else from us. We can see each other for who we are now.

And, right now, there’s a very handsome man standing in front of me who just might be the only man in my life to ever do anything to protect me. He had my back in rooms I wasn’t in.

How wild is that?

I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know where we go from here. But I do know the answer to his question.

“Where does that leave us?” I ask, grinning. “You better get over here and kiss me again.”